


footsteps

by orphan_account



Category: Avatar: The Last Airbender
Genre: Babyfic, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-30
Updated: 2015-07-30
Packaged: 2018-04-12 02:22:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,022
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4461671
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This baby is the most terrifying responsibility he's ever been given. — Zuko/Mai.</p>
            </blockquote>





	footsteps

**Author's Note:**

> This was supposed to be a Serious Exploration of Zuko's daddy issues. It morphed into Maiko baby fluff at the end. I wish I had some shame.

His hands tremble as they circle a cup of plum wine, rough skin against ornate china— he drinks sloppily, scattering droplets across the tablecloth. He should not be sitting in this antechamber, but there is nothing more he _can_ do. Husbands are forbidden from entering the birthing apartments— "it'd be terribly improper," his wife's attendants had insisted, shocked by his audacity, "and men lack the stomach to witness childbirth." Whatever horrors are taking place in there, he thinks, must be considerably less grim than the ones his brain has conjured up, listening to anguished screams the thin walls don't muffle.

Lit sticks of incense are spread around him, reeking of lemongrass and cinnamon and heliotrope— supposedly, to calm his frayed nerves. If only his nerves could be calmed by conventional methods, he would be as relaxed as Uncle by now, he swears. 

There's a sudden rap at the door. "Permission to enter, your majesty?"

"Granted," he replies hoarsely. It swings open to reveal a midwife, who falls to her knees in a brief kowtow before clambering to her feet again. She has said nothing, yet he has already predicted the worst from her unreadable expression. _Hypovolemic shock. Maybe it was dead at birth, maybe it twitched and flailed for a few minutes. The physicians told her not to do it— slender hips, barely nineteen, history of miscarriage. I kill everything I touch._

"Lady Mai's labor is complete," she says, and he almost faints from sheer relief. "A girl, healthy enough. You'd best visit them soon— your wife's threatened four nurses with shuriken if we don't get you over there."

(Whenever he thought of this child, it was always a male, like him. Like Ozai. He knows little of girls— just Azula, with her sharp teeth and cruel fingers. How many ways can a father destroy a daughter? As many as he can destroy a son?)

He discovers Mai in bed, haggard and sweaty, though she manages a wan smile when he approaches her— for a moment, he feels as though the sun has taken up residence in that cold room. "Are you all right?" he chokes out.

"As all right as I can be under the circumstances," she shoots back, gesturing downwards. "I gave her a milk name while you were gone— Ziyi, from the scriptures. The fire sages will love it."

"It's a good name," he reassures— he'd been angling for Ursa, but Mai had been adamant on not turning their children into walking, talking memorials, so he let the matter slide. After a few seconds he realizes that there's something missing in this equation, and swivels around to cast eyes upon a reed bassinet that contains a swaddled sort of red lump. He freezes.

"Do you want to hold her?" Mai asks softly. "Just remember to keep your hand beneath her neck."

Carefully, he picks her up and perches on the edge of the bed, staring at her tiny features. It's hard to tell who she resembles— the sharp jawline is obviously Mai's, as is the mulish set of her mouth, but the eyes are his, warm gold, reserving judgment towards the strange giant that has decided to manhandle her.

_("You will learn respect, and suffering will be your teacher." A flaming fist to the head, bloodlust ringing in his ears. Betrayal from a man who placed no value on trust. Antiseptic and bandages, dead skin sloughed off his monster's face.)_

Could he? he wonders. Could he look into those same eyes, pleading for mercy, and land a damning blow? When did his father know what he was capable of?

( _"Azula was born lucky," comes a harsh voice, as Zuko fails, yet again, to perform a simple kata. "She could execute the Crouching Swan form when she was half your age, prodigiously honoring our house. You? You were lucky to be born."_ )

"I'm going to screw this up," he whispers.

"You might," she admits, "but you probably won't. Iroh still writes twice a week to remind you to take regular rest periods and drink plenty of jasmine tea throughout the day— you've got him for a role model." Shamefully, he'd forgotten Iroh— long-suffering Iroh, who'd managed to wrangle his teenage histrionics without throwing him overboard. " _I_ might screw this up. The one relative I have who isn't as shallow as a serving spoon is my Uncle Daisuke, and his nurturing is hardly the kind you'd want to emulate."

He forgets, sometimes, that her childhood was sad, too. His was dramatic, disappearing mothers and threats of murder in the night and agonizing public burnings, trauma looping through his mind on constant replay. Hers was faded, family portraits with the colors bled out— a silent girl, back against the garden wall, knees held to chest.

"So… we're both going to screw this up?"

"Looks like it," she nonchalantly declares. "Either that or we become the best parents ever known to man by ignoring our parents' examples."

He laughs, more from nervous relief than anything else. At least that's a strategy— pondering what Ozai would do in a certain situation, then doing the exact opposite. "Slit my throat if I challenge her to an Agni Kai or start mentioning around-the-world trips, please."

"Feel free to return the favor if I let a lacy robe within a ten mile radius of her." Reclining on her elbows, she deftly reaches over and takes Ziyi from his grasp. "Mine," she chides. "I should at least get to hold the kid whose life I'm about to destroy."

He looks at his daughter— _his daughter_ — again. _This is the most terrifying responsibility I've ever been given._ "I'll try," he murmurs. "I can't promise more, but I'll try."

"You can try changing her diaper," Mai teases, but something in her steady gaze tells him that she understands. "Manage a poop machine and we'll see if you're able to handle her first boyfriend."

"Erm, Mai? Where exactly did the nursemaids go?" he asks, panicked. There are certain tasks that are simply beneath the Fire Lord's dignity, no matter how necessary.

A most uncharacteristic giggle emerges from her lips at _that_. 


End file.
